Chapter 11
Brynn
Two Months Later
Chloe and I were sitting on the plush carpet of her bedroom while her favorite Vampire Weekend album playing over her stereo. Pickles was with us, too—he sat in Chloe's lap, loudly purring, while Chloe told me about the latest high school drama and gossip.
“But Sadie is super obsessed with Adam, and she thinks that just because she announced that she had a crush on him first, that no one else is allowed to flirt with him . . .”
Whenever Shea was in Boston and had custody, Pickles and I had to pack up our bags and head over to the Ellis house in Brookline. I wasn't sure how the eight-year-old cat would respond to all that moving and shuffling around—but the truth was, he loved all the attention that came with being a live-in-nanny's cat. He had four more laps to sit on, and an enormous house to explore with plenty of nooks and crannies for a feline to fall asleep in.
“. . . which, okay, fine. I won't flirt with Adam, because I don't even know how to flirt in the first place! I don't know what to say, and I get really super awkward! . . .”
Chloe took a break from her story to appreciate Pickles's purr. “He's got such a loud motor! Don't you, Mr. Pickles? Yes you do!”
Pickles's chartreuse eyes rolled back in his head as he relished the scratching. He was so pleased with himself. Part of me liked to think that Pickles thought of this as his job, too.
Chloe continued her rant. “But sometimes Adam talks to me, and then Sadie gets ultra mad at me. She won't even talk to me for days, because she says I'm flirting with him but I'm really not! . . .”
I couldn't help but crack a smile when Chloe shared that very familiar teen drama with me. Did every teen girl go through that same experience, with that same exact type of friend? The jealous one who thought that merely telling her friends that she had a crush on a boy meant no one else was allowed to speak to him, lest they ruin their friendship and risk her eternal wrath?
All of Chloe's problems with friends and boys could be boiled down to one essential truth: teenagers have terrible communication skills, and highly volatile emotions.
Which was why it made me so happy that Chloe opened up to me, and so quickly, too. If nothing else, telling me about her problems was the first step in working through them. Now, I like to think that I can get her to stop and think about what is really bugging her, and how to define the problem in precise words.
I can't help but think how much I would've benefited from having someone to talk to when I was Chloe's age. Instead, I kept my problems buried deep inside—because to talk about my problems and fears would've made them real, I would've had to confront them.
Then again, a small part of me wonders: what makes me so sure that I'm not doing the same thing now?
***
I guess I need to explain myself a little more.
Two months as the Ellis family nanny have flown by, faster than I ever could've imagined. I've loved every second of it. 'Dream job' doesn't even begin to describe what I do. It has felt like it's more than a job. It has felt like I've found a place where I truly belong. It has been such a good fit, in fact, that when payday comes, I feel almost guilty taking Shea's money. Like the financial transaction cheapens the authenticity of the bond I've forged with that family. And when Shea's out of town and the kids are with their mother, I've found myself feeling restless at my apartment, not knowing or remembering what it is I even like to do in my own free time.
My friends have noticed this shift. They think I've met someone I'm not telling them about. Technically, they're right—Shea made me sign a non-disclosure agreement when he hired me. All my friends know is that I'm a live-in nanny for someone important. The inside joke is that I'm sleeping with him. Ha ha.
Even though Shea made me sign a NDA, he was cool with me telling my family who I work for. And my brothers cannot believe it. Thing is, no matter how much they beg, I can't ever let them meet Shea—because they'd totally spill the beans on the whole 'childhood crush' thing.
Here's what has happened in two short months:
Chloe hasn't just opened up to me—she has started opening up to the world in general. You can see the change in her demeanor, the way she carries herself, the way she stopped hiding so much with hairstyles and clothes.
She still has an extremely short fuse with her dad—and I've been working on helping them both out with that problem—but for a teen girl, that's not exactly some new or unheard-of phenomenon. It's a phase, and with a little patience, they'll both get through it in time.
Nick and Cam are still two rambunctious little squirrels. But only when they're together, I've learned. Split those boys apart, and they become so shy around me, they can barely manage to sputter a few words.
Here's something I've realized about them: they share a friendly, every-hour-of-every-day competitiveness. They're always challenging each other to some feat and trying to prove who is stronger or better. As off-putting as it can be sometimes—racing to see who can finish their dinner first, for example—it was easy to use that dynamic to get them into the weight room. All I had to do was show one of the twins how to bench press an unweighted bar, and bam, the other one had to do it, too.
That said, no, the twins have not exactly morphed into hulking bodybuilders just yet. Shea's right that they don't have much interest in the gym. Sure, I can talk them into doing a few lifts here and there—but they're still only ten years old. It's hard to get boys that young excited to have a regular lifting regimen. All I can do is offer to train them from time to time, and if they go for it, hey, great. But no arm twisting, like Shea said.
The twins are eating a lot more, though, and that fact has pleased Shea to no end. They've gained a little weight. Every pound helps, or so Shea has told me.
And then there was Shea. Who could forget Shea? The Boston Brawlers are just about ready to finish their season—and then they launch right into the playoff grind. The Brawlers have been winning, winning, and winning. The whole city has their hopes up that this is the year.
Shea has acknowledged again and again in his media interviews that he's playing the best hockey he's played in years. Privately, he says he owes it all to me, because, for once, his household is actually running smoothly, and he can just focus on leading his team on the ice.
After having put up with so many weird remarks—like, 'nannying isn't a real job'—it feels really amazing to have Shea always telling me how much I do for him. And not only that, but telling me that my work is so important that it could affect the way a professional hockey team plays.
I mean, I'm not sure I even believe that myself, but it sure is flattering.
When Shea comes home from a game, I still sit with him at the table and we talk about our days. And it's always nice. When he's on the road, and I'm back at my apartment with Pickles, Shea still calls me just to ask about my day before he fills me in on the details of his. Sometimes, we'll lose track of time and just stay up late talking. He's not only been a great boss, but a great friend, too.
Friend. Keyword. Because, beneath all that normalcy, there's a lingering awkwardness between us that just won't go away. And deep down, I know it's all my fault.
Because things have always been slightly tense ever since the night I made that mortifying mistake. When I even begin to think of that one mistake, dread immediately floods into my heart and I have to force myself to think of something else before the panic and horror consume my soul.
I'm talking, of course, about the first night I worked for Shea—when I almost kissed him.
Gah!
Ack!
Just saying it makes me break into a cold sweat.
But could anyone really blame me? When Shea offered to walk me to my car that first night, I thought something was, well, just a little strange. Seriously, I was parked in the driveway. Did I really need his gentlemanly escort? Of course not.
So my heart started beating a little faster.
I got my hopes and dreams up, thinking the athlete was planning to make a move.
Yes, I convinced myself that this was how it all went down. This was how I got my fairy tale ending. The nanny who somehow ended up interviewing with her childhood crush, a famous hockey player, who was now struggling to juggle the demands of a pro career and single fatherhood. How perfect, right?
Uggg.
I fell for it. I fell for my own storybook narrative.
And so, when Shea walked me the twenty feet out to my car, I was sure it was for some other reason than the fact he was just a nice, stand-up kind of guy.
And while Shea was actually moving to politely close my door for me—I thought he was reaching out to kiss me.
So I shut my eyes and waited.
I even stood on my tip-toes to reach his lips.
But he wasn't trying to make a move on me, and the kiss never came. And when I opened my eyes again, Shea was holding the door, a look of regret on his face.
Oh.
Oh no.
I was so embarrassed. I came so close to calling Shea the next day and telling him that I wasn't a good fit for his family. But something about those kids of his kept me from chickening out.
Thankfully, Shea has never brought that moment up. I guess it was just easier that we both pretend like it never happened.
***
Pickles craned his neck as Chloe scratched his favorite spot, right on the chin. Her rant about the Sadie and Adam love-triangle moved into teen self-deprecation.
“I'm so awkward … my face is so weird looking … I have all my dad's genes, ugh … big nose, big eyes, big everything.”
I laughed. “You're not weird looking, Chloe, you're very, very pretty. And this might not be what you want to hear, but your dad is a very handsome man, too.”
“I can't believe you just said my dad is handsome!” Chloe squealed loudly.
“Chloe!” I whispered. “Quiet or he'll hear you!”
“So what if he hears us?”
“He could get the wrong idea. I wasn't being salacious about your father—I was trying to make a point. He's handsome, and you've inherited those good looks yourself.”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “If I were a boy, handsome would be great. But there's a reason nobody ever calls a girl handsome, Brynn, and you know it.”
“You're beautiful, Chloe, you just don't know it yet.”
“Yeah, right.” She sighed. “You're beautiful, Brynn. I wish I looked like you. I doubt you ever had to worry about being ugly when you were my age.”
I laughed out loud. “Oh, God. You couldn't be more wrong.”
“Pfft. I doubt it.”
“You want me to prove it, then?” I asked, reaching for my cell phone.
“Sure.”
“A few years back, my mom got on Facebook and uploaded all these old family photos.” I loaded up Facebook and went to my mom's profile. “I immediately had to untag myself from all of them before anybody saw the evidence.”
“Ha!” Chloe hovered nearby, eagerly awaiting the pictures.
I found the old album and started flipping through the pictures of me in my awkward teen years. Ugh, just looking at those pictures transported my mind and body back in time. My brain released a chemical shower of those awful teenage hormones, and existential angst flooded my bloodstream.
“I thought I could handle this,” I said, cringing as one awkward picture after another flew by the screen, “but maybe I'm not as tough as I thought.”
“Oh my God!” Chloe giggled. “Your hair …! What happened?”
“Told you,” I muttered.
“Whoa. That shirt. Whoa.”
“Yup,” I agreed.
I saw the next picture—wearing an athletic bra, flexing my biceps—and quickly tried to flick past it before Brynn could see.
“Whoa whoa whoa!” Brynn yelled. “Was that you? You have to go back!”
Sheepishly, I pulled the picture up again. I was nothing but skin, bones, and muscle striation. It hurt to look at that picture, in so many ways, but I hoped it might help Chloe to see it.
Chloe's jaw fell. “Holy six-pack, Brynn! You were ripped! And so skinny! What the hell?”
“Yep,” I said.
“I knew you were a personal trainer, but I never knew you looked like that.” Chloe looked at me, then the cell phone version of me, trying to reconcile the two in her mind.
“I spent a lot of time jogging, and a lot of time in the gym,” I muttered.
“Jeez. No kidding.” She raised her brow at me. “You don't look anything like that at all anymore. It's like you're not even the same person.”
Hearing that, the fifteen-year-old in me wanted to curl up into a ball and die. But the twenty-seven-year-old me knew that that was a good thing indeed.
“It's how I dealt with being unhappy with my body, Chloe.”
“Getting super fit and shredded, you mean?”
I didn't want her to follow in my footsteps. “I looked fit, and I thought I was in great shape, too. But the truth was, I was the furthest thing from healthy. I wasn't eating enough, Chloe, and it caused me health problems.”
“Whoa. Like what?”
“My hair and fingernails started falling out, for one. Then I started to have chest pain and heart palpitations.”
“Oh my God.” Her face crumpled with horror. “Scary. I can't even imagine.”
“Yup. So don't be like me—learn to love yourself for who you are.” I smiled at Chloe and reached for my phone. “This has been very educational for you, I hope.”
“Wait, just a couple more!”
Chloe swiped her finger across my screen, looking at one picture and then the next—before a specific photo grabbed her attention. She stared at it, her head tilting with interest.
In the photograph, I was around her age, and I smiled for the camera in my bedroom. It wasn't a particularly embarrassing photo. I wasn't sure what she was looking for or what had caught her attention.
There was half-a-knock on the bedroom door before Shea pushed it open and stepped into his daughter's bedroom.
Chloe scrambled to shut my phone off and tossed it back to me.